


Sand

by feins



Series: A Lighter Path [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 21:12:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17311943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feins/pseuds/feins
Summary: Based on the events of The Guru and Crossroads of Destiny. AU. Aang makes a different choice.





	Sand

**Author's Note:**

> _I'll stop time for you_   
>  _(so) it won't really matter the days, months, years that pass_   
>  _because in the end, it's only sand slipping through glass_
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> ([x](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6049693/1/And-I-ll-Stop-Time-for-You))

Her touch on his scar is a revelation. He has never let anyone, not even his uncle, lay a hand on that of which his shame, his dishonour is a physical manifestation. Not ever, until her. The waterbender he has ever seen fierce like the warrior she is has hands as soft as the healing she promises, and with only a word, he has already let her in.

His eyes have closed. It is too much, and yet it is hardly enough. He can barely draw breath through to his lungs, summon himself to do anything but hold absolutely still. In this moment, she has all the power, to free him as she would, as she said or to turn away, as she should. He is still the enemy after all; he has not been the one to offer himself forward.

Yet they understand each other perfectly, somehow. In the silence of the green lights filling the spaces, she is a benediction; a voice on the wind and a grounding force all at once, he has gravitated toward her almost unbidden, for this.

Across all the continents he had chased her, had bound her, had fought her, and just when he thought he would never need lay eyes on her and her companions again, destiny has brought them together once more. Every inch of him is tingling with awareness, alert to every movement she makes, every sound, every action. His eyes are still firmly shut, the left side with a little more difficulty, but he can hear her draw her water out of her waterskin, and he instinctively tenses before forcing himself to relax once more. He has never been a coward, but then, she has never been anything but a match for him.

Perhaps this is a dream after all. His life had always been tossed about at the whim of angry spirits, and he knew that the measure of almost-peace he had found in this city could not last. Perhaps this is yet again the workings of a fever he had not yet recovered from, and she is an apparition.

And yet.

_And yet._

Had she not screamed at him just minutes before? Had she not just called him a monster whose face she envisioned when she needed to put an image in her mind of her enemy? He has witnessed firsthand the decadence of his nation's soldiers, the suffering they have caused and untold tales of sorrow, the fear and destruction they have brought even to the simplest of people, he has seen and wanted to forget but he cannot, and he cannot hope to atone for enough.

 _And yet_  she is here. Her other hand has cupped the right side of his face, and he knows he must be burning when she gasps, his inner fire invigorated with the depth of his anxiety, but she does not pull away. Instead, she is warm, and solid, and she is  _real_.

He opens his eyes at last. She is so close he can see all the shades of blue in her eyes, the way it is darkest at the edges, like clouds heralding storm, but so bright at the center, like the sea at the poles she calls home. She is asking him for permission, quietly.

"Zuko," she says, "May I...?"

He nods, bows his head, but his courage fails him, again.

He cannot even speak. He is not strong enough for this.

Perhaps he should run. He does not know how he could take it if he—, if  _she_ —

"Hey," she says, soothes, her hand on his shoulder now, thumb rubbing gently back and forth on his sleeve, "It's going to be okay. I promise."

Her gaze catches on his and holds it. He shudders at her words, but, he realises with a jolt, meeting her stare, that he does trust her. With but a touch, she would give him back his life. He would give her anything, for that.

He takes a breath, than another. She is quiet, steady, certain, like the waves lapping against the shore.

He surrenders himself to her hands, unwilling, unable to resist. Her hand has wandered down now, and folded his palm in hers.

He switches her grip, holds onto her like a lifeline, an anchor, a tangible presence that he can hold down and grasp.

"Okay," he says, and he tells himself not to look away from her, not when she presses her now water-coated fingers open-palmed against the deadened part of his face, and not when her own eyes leave his to focus in concentration; he feels a rush of cool air around him to indicate her power at work. He can feel her breathing against him, the little puffs of air around him intermingling with his. There is hardly any space between them, and yet he is not bothered overly much.

It feels like she has iced over the whole of the left side of his face, the little of it that he can sense. It is not an unpleasant sensation, but his nerve fails him and with a shudder, he shuts his eyes tight and lets her work her magic on his skin. He prays instead, teeth gritted, to Agni, to _Fate herself_ , that he would have this. Just here, just now.

He is still, despite himself, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her to realise that the Spirits' water cannot help him, that she does not want to help him after all, that she is a temptation from the Spirits themselves, or some other sudden excuse for her to be whisked away, taking all his hopes, his faith, his heart with her. Does she even know what she is doing to him? She is taking all he is in her hands, to break forever in pieces or to remake anew, and he does not know what to do. What he can do, but  _belong_  with her now, if she succeeds. His honour would demand nothing less.

Each second is at least several minutes too long, several doubts too great, several fears too many. He cannot think on himself, for all the ways he continues to fall short is painful, and so he thinks of her. It has been so long since anyone has truly touched his soul, as she has. Her compassion could bring a man to his knees, has nearly brought him so, that she could give to him something so precious, a piece of her culture, a piece of  _her_ , for just a few sentences exchanged, that she could be willing to look over their shared past, and reach out to him, someone it has turned out is not so very different from her, when all was said and done. Her goodness is a beacon, he cannot help but wonder at it, and it is already awakening something in him in response that goes beyond the wounds she can see.

He  _could_  stay with her, he thinks. She could be his salvation, and he would be her soldier, her pawn, to lead where she would, even though it would be against his father whom, he is only realising now, is not even a shade of the person she is, who with an act of cruelty has caused him to nearly lose all that he was, all he had believed in, when he should have held him up, when he should have  _loved_   _him_.

That is the truth of it, he acknowledges now. His father had never loved him. But the waterbender, Katara, with every second, is proving herself a better woman than his father ever was, and the thought is a physical ache in his chest, settling deep into his bones. His father had never thought he could be enough.

Katara believes he already is.

Slowly he has begun to sense something creeping back over his skin, like she has banished the deadness away and revived his cells to feel again, to breathe again. She is healing him in more ways than one. He gulps and forces himself to swallow the feeling down, but his heart is in his throat. He has only ever felt so vulnerable once before, kneeling in front of his father. Last time all it had gotten him was his scar, the epitome of all his father's slights against him permanently carved onto his skin, and even beyond, into his marrow and bones, imprinted forever on him.

He had begged for mercy, then. He is tempted to beg again, now, when he is so  _close_ , when it would be cruel of her to end this, before he could be whole, but it would be all that he deserved. He has done nothing to warrant this from her, the monster son of a monstrous man, whose approval he still yearned for despite having perceived, perhaps for longer than he had realised, that he may never have it, and perhaps shouldn't have to. What does it make him, to want to still feel attachment to the man who had likely ordered her own mother dead, and taken away his from him?

He wants, and he finds his heart is torn in two. He is clay in her hands, but now he has been given flesh. It is only a twitching in his left eye, but it is more than he has done than blinking in three years.

"Zuko," she says, her hands leaving his face.

She has stepped away, he knows because he has been so attuned to her and her touch—he had felt it, had actually  _felt_  her coolness against his scarred flesh—has gone, although their clasped palms remain, he is still clutching her tightly. He stifles the urge to protest, her distance arousing a sense of loss within him, and he does not know what to do.

"Zuko," she says, sounding happier than he has ever heard her call his name, "I did it. Zuko, open your eyes."

It is everything he has feared.

His eyes shoot open anyway, and he removes his hand from her grip, up to prod at where the scar is no more, soft skin meeting his fingers. He can  _feel_  his bones digging into his skin, touch the smoothness under his fingertips. His palm moves to examine his ear and that too, has been healed. He is no longer half-blind from his left eye, his vision completely restored. It is true, all true.

This was no dream.

Tears catch on his lashes as he blinks, rapidly, and start to fall.

She has done it. She had made it possible, standing a few steps away from him, smiling at him shyly as if she has not just fitted the jagged edges of him back together and restored his whole being, his honour, his respect, his  _dignity_. She has given him back his  _life_ , and now she stands apart.

He moves to close the distance with his feet over to her, pulling her into a tight hug; hoping she understands the magnitude of feeling his whispered "thank you" cannot begin to convey. He mumbles it into her hair anyway, over and over, and if she feels something wet land on her sleeve, she doesn't remark on it. Her arms come up around him too, and for the first time in the three long years since his banishment, Zuko finds his heart at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a ficlet which you can read [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/3476067/1/Dark-Paths).


End file.
